What do you make of the man who sells his muse?
It's what she wants.
It's what she asks for.
It's the active creation of a ghost, the planning for something that remains in verse and shadow long after the departure of the flesh.
It's the creation of memory and emotion that will remain fresh for the consumer, but will soon become the thorn for the creator
It's the serving of beloved as buffet.
It's what we need.
And ask for.
What do we make of the girl who sells her desire.
It's how she succeeds.
It's how she fails.
It's the only way she can escape when the sheets become netting and webbing, tied at the top with twine. It's the only escape when the twine is tied to a branch and the breeze swings it, and the water drips into the bucket.
It's the only way she can succeed when the selling of that part becomes the property of everyone she despises, and the betrayal of all the others she loves.
It's the sale of body for soul.
It's what we root for.
It's what we tear down.
What becomes of the man sold muse, what becomes of the dream that is man when the lines intersect, and neither man, or girl, has enough blood to survive hemorrhage?